


Slushies

by BadOldWest



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: F/M, Food Play, Ghosts?, Mild Praise Kink, Oral Sex, Rooftop Sex, Shower Sex, a lotta slushies, freeze your brain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7724572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadOldWest/pseuds/BadOldWest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not bad. It's also not what she was hoping for when he picked her up on his motorcycle and snuck her onto the rooftop of the school. Each of them armed with a slushie. It seemed like a real date. He wasn’t the tie-and-flowers-for-her-mother type, the kind of guy to drive her to the nearest Chinese food restaurant forty-five minutes out of Sherwood, Ohio for something “exotic” and expecting a handjob for the road. He wasn’t a prom date kind of guy. For all she knew, he survived on cafeteria food and cherry slushies, eating mostly while standing, efficiently, not talking much until her was done.  </p><p> </p><p>Still, she expected something a little more usual, even though nothing is usual with him, up until the moment he flicked his straw instead of answering her question, in that infuriating way, and cherry ice snapped against her neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's cold, and sticky, and originally did not seem very sexy at all.

 

He splashes another slop of ice across her chest. She shivers. A mouth chases the cherry. She struggles to move again, but his free hand squeezes her wrists again, a reminder.

 

_I’m not letting go._

 

It's not bad. It's also not what she was hoping for when he picked her up on his motorcycle and snuck her onto the rooftop of the school. Each of them armed with a slushie. It seemed like a real date. He wasn’t the tie-and-flowers-for-her-mother type, the kind of guy to drive her to the nearest Chinese food restaurant forty-five minutes out of Sherwood, Ohio for something “exotic” and expecting a handjob for the road. He wasn’t a prom date kind of guy. For all she knew, he survived on cafeteria food and cherry slushies, eating mostly while standing, efficiently, not talking much until he was done.  

 

Still, she expected something a little more usual, even though nothing is usual with him, up until the moment he flicked his straw instead of answering her question, in that infuriating way, and cherry ice snapped against her neck.

 

She drew an indignant breath, but his eyes traced the spray like a razor blade. He watched her shiver as the night air glanced the ice as it melted away into nothing.

 

“Don't do that,” she warned, and he flicked his straw again, splattering Red Dye #40 across her lips. With the ice shards, it stung a little, left her lips swollen.

 

Made her really feel his lips when they sealed onto hers, hungry.

 

And now she finds herself on her back, shirt open, hands pinned over her head as he drips blended corn syrup and ice chips all over her neck and chest, cleaning up the mess he makes with a hot tongue and harsh sucks.  

 

He obviously loves it. He's a devouring kind, and what better way to keep him happy than to give him something to eat.

 

She's not sure what to think. It's a sensation that's not quite wet, not quite solid.

 

It's fun. It's stupid, asinine really, but it's a game of making out as opposed to an end of the night expectation, it's special and weird and she cannot think that anyone else would do this kind of thing with her. God, she is a teenager, despite her furious resistance.

 

With a cold cross between and splash and a splat, the ice is cradled on the plateau created in the center of her ribcage, under where her bra ends. She feels pinpoints of chill through the lace. A lot of splatter.

 

She wants to chastise him for making a mess, but god, it's so dirty and she's so sticky and hot and bothered and she knows he's making her this way for a reason and he’ll never give her anything if she asks. He’s not that kind of guy. She squeezes her thighs together as he watches the red mess strewn under her breasts. He's not telling her. So she waits.

 

“It's cold,” she whines, wriggling helplessly.

 

“I know,” he whispers reverently, excitedly. Instead of gobbling the icy mass down, he presses his brow in it, she can feel the bluntness of his forehead and the point of his nose in her abdomen.

 

“JD,” she whispers softly, “Jesus, you're getting it all over your face,”

 

“It's so cold,” he echoes quietly, his voice small and almost childlike.

 

“You...you like this?”

 

She reaches into her abandoned cup, drawing a handful of sugary ice and holding it to the nape of his neck, where it would ride his spine like an electrical shock. He jolts at the contact, then sighs, turning his head on her to press the thin skin covering his temple against the melting ice on her. His whole body shudders, cradled between her legs. She can feel his pulse beating under her sternum.

 

He clumsily returns the favor, holding a fistful of ice to the sensitive skin behind her ear. A sharp bite and then a numbness fills her. She can only think about how this is what he wants. To be numb.

 

Her hands digs into the cup again, and she combs the mess into his hair, sugary and slick. He actually moans at his, head lifted into her touch, brushing more ice onto her stomach before lowering it back down to nestle into the red trickle.  

 

He goes completely still for a long time. To the point that she is shivering, but he doesn't move at all. She gets the absurd notion that he's frozen to death on top of her.

 

“JD?”

 

He lifts his head for a moment, lips tugged back at one side; his strange, hooked smile.

 

He looks splattered in gore, illuminated by far away stadium lights, red and devilish and she can't look away.

 

His fingers are cold as death when he opens her thighs. She shudders.

 

“You're all hot here,” he murmurs, soft and lulling, and she feels small and breakable in the best way and she wants to be smashed into the roof. “You want me to make that better?”

 

She is reduced to functions she can barely process.

 

A single whimper, a lip bite, a nod.

 

Not nearly as much the sadist he pretends to be, he keeps his mouth close to her pussy when he drips cherry slushie between her legs. She cries out and flinches but his mouth is there before she can even finish the sound. It's cold but it's only a reminder of how hot she is inside, how much she's melting around him and the ice rushing and her heels dig into the roof underneath her.

 

She can feel him smiling against her, teeth like ice.

 

But just as she’s finally relaxed into it, only jerking her hips for more friction, not in resistance, he flips them over so she is straddling his waist, collarbones level with his brow. And she gapes at him, trying to figure out why the fuck he stopped when it was just getting good.

 

Maybe this was done. Maybe this was how things were supposed to go. Maybe they were just teenagers.

 

He smirks again, lying back against the roof, tugging at her hips so she has to crawl forward to comply with the ways he’s pushing her.

 

Just like that, she’s shaking again, because he wants her hovering over his mouth, no questions, and she’s anxious again, because out of all the things they’d done, this is weird and new. All the other, okay _the one_ guy she’d gotten to go down on her before Jason Dean took it as a necessary evil, rushed it until she had a sloppy flutter of a half-orgasm and asked if he wouldn’t have to do that again because he didn’t like it. JD was more compliant than they had ever been, but she’d certainly never expected him to draw it out by changing positions like that.

 

Raising his eyebrows at her hesitation, JD fumbles to the side for a minute, grabbing the cup and pouring some of the remains of the slushie into his mouth. Then he grabs onto her hips and drags her until she loses her balance and has to settle over his face, palms scraped on the ground above his head.

 

She shrieks at the cold shock of ice against where she was the softest and hottest, and JD’s cold tongue stroking insistently against her, making her forget she hated it, making her like it, making her love it. Her weight settles to feel more friction. His arms band around her hips, reminding her even if she wanted him to stop, he wouldn’t let her.

 

Thank god she wants it.

 

She writhes on top of him now, and he furiously shakes his head side to side against her, creating a vibrating pulse, and she is mindless and frozen. Limbs locked, head thrown back, speechless.

 

When it’s over she’s numb. He spoons around her, for the first time he is not snappy and crackling and alive, but gentle and subdued. Like he’s been drugged, or asleep. Peaceful.

 

She dimly notes that she needs to wash the sugar out of herself once she goes home. How she’ll have to think about this when she does it. It's nothing short of shower nozzle masturbation material. She flinches at Heather’s words coming back to haunt her. But it's true.

 

She dimly feels his hands trace her curves, his breath relaxed and muted brushing her ear. She looks down at her body.

 

It looks like she’s covered in blood. Just like his face. This time it’s fake.

 

She’s not so sure about next time.


	2. After You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Movie/Musical.

Night felt like their time. 

There was a sleekness to it. An air of mystery. An elegance to how they could vanish into a slight-of-hand aided by dark.

She was someone sharper and smarter and sexier and he saw through the dark and admired it. He kept her amused with just enough information to keep her bored, _so bored_ , mind entertained. His tangled thoughts a ball of yarn for her claws. 

Night was cool and smoky and full of possibility, where they connected and schemed and planned. Like he glided through it on his way to her. If fluorescent lit their relationship, sunlight withered it. Like a black orchid craving neon. 

Night house all their ideas, daybreak was where they had to go back to being kids and their differences harshly illuminated. It’s where they fought. 

She only let herself do this on the really bad days. When Heather Duke managed to voice her most invasive, horrible thoughts, the echo of her voice humming like an irritant for the rest of the day, when all the other voices sounded so much louder, and she wore her exhaustion like a physical ache. 

She would borrow the car and drove to the Happy Snack Shack, idling in the parking lot. Letting her eyes blur to the tangle of neon signs. Almost expecting to see the motorcycle parked there. 

Sometimes she would only let herself look. See that its constant ghost was dead. That he wasn’t haunting there anymore. 

But on the really bad nights, like tonight, where she was still reeling from Miss Fleming’s epic stake-out of her locker with some bullshit about grief counseling, seeking a head to rest on her shoulder like she wasn’t the one that needed help, Veronica treated herself to a slushie. Cherry. Red. 

She sucks the straw dry until she couldn’t feel her face. Until she doesn’t feel like anything at all. 

She does it quickly so it won’t melt and leave her with a sugar-shock of high fructose corn syrup. It’s all in the ice. Just like he taught her. 

She can practically hear his voice commentating sometimes. 

Sometime approving. 

**_That’s my girl_ ** when she bends the rules, says something to push things into her favor. Not quite a lie but a justification of something that would turn the tables. 

Sometimes not so approving. 

**_I thought you had better taste than that_ ** echoed through her mind at winter formal, arm-in-arm with Dennis, the first person who’d asked her. She almost answered, her tongue needling her lips, that she had fallen for his cool-guy routine and that spoke worlds more about her poor taste. She almost snickered at the end of the night, at Dennis’s  nice-but-nothing-flooring kiss and she could almost hear it, almost, the way he sarcastically purred into her ear that he was fine just watching, but he wasn’t sure he could control himself if she was going to get so hot for another guy. 

Tonight is no different, that blend of hate/admiration, too bitter to grieve but too intrigued not to toast with the giant plastic cup.

It’s like heroin, her head falls back and her thoughts slow. God, this is better than any drug. She almost wants to whisper thanks to him. Almost wants to curl up with her head in the passenger seat, head on his lap, his arm curled around her.

She has so many “almosts” building up inside her. 

Instead, now she sits, her brain vibrating with cold, jaw clenched. 

She glances out the driver’s side window. There’s a handprint against the fogged glass. 

She just takes another sip, as though she’s caught Peter Pan’s shadow, trap baited for her boy who’d never grow up. 

Honors English had first been ripe with fictitious boys like JD, metaphors that sliced her open with agonizing accuracy. Renegades and broken boys and daddy issues and green lights. 

But that’s because, she had realized on a sleep-deprived night, that the text was just showing her exactly what she was looking for. Just that she wanted it to have meaning. Everything meant something, and that means it meant nothing. Eskimo indeed. 

Her straw is slurping at the near-empty cup, and her eyes flit around, not quite believing the print is there, with no one to have placed it there without her noticing. 

Another thud sounds from the other side of the car. This time she lets out a shout, a single incoherent syllable, but no one is at the window when she whips her head to look. 

He’s not there. 

But traced in the glass, 

She can practically feel one of his fingers dancing along her skin, making those letters

Backlit by red-and-blue blinking light,

_ I’m still here. _

 


	3. Chapter 3

She sneaks into the gym showers after dark. 

They did this after he poured out a slushie into her skin and licked it up, and once before school the day they killed Kurt and Ram. It was pretty sexy, showering with a boy for the first time, with a lot of kissing and teasing about messes made. The second time, she washed off and refused to get back in his car, walking home with her hair straight and wet down her back, dampening her clothes. He trailed her for half the way, but when coaxing her didn’t work, he went with flooring the car in an exit so dramatic she felt like he wanted her to regret not going with him. 

She kind of did. 

Maybe she didn’t wash off, she was too numb, but he washed her, slicking her wet hair off her face and encircling her with his arms. Whispering that things were better this way. They were cleaning up the world. She didn’t push him away then, just buried her face in the water flow, until he had to tilt her head back up out of it, trying to get her to look at him. She didn’t resist when he pushed her up against the tile wall, didn’t fight when he opened her legs, didn’t stop him from rolling his hips against her. He was harder than she’d ever felt him. The fucked up part of her liked it, still thought about it, wished she could have it again. 

This time she’s alone. She leaves the lights to the locker room on, and they bask the pink tiles in a warm glow, just enough to be able to avoid that raw halogen burn. 

Maybe she’s not alone. 

She feels it, often when she’s naked and sometimes even when she’s just acting in a way that would make him proud, that voyuer in her life. She feels it in her water-slicked shoulders, the tension there. He’s still there. He’s still watching. 

She lathers up; strong, cheap, burning soap that’s not soft and flowery like the stuff her mom buys. Hard water pinpricks her skin. She wants to feel it all burn. 

“Prom’s coming up.”

The soap slips out of her hands, smacking against the wall across from her. She glances over her shoulder.

Sometimes she hears things, but they aren’t there. 

This is not one of those times. 

“Got a big date planned,” her mouth shoots off before she can even process  _ how _ the hell he’s there. 

“Just when I was getting ready to dust off the old tuxedo.”

Her arms cross over her chest before she turns around. Facing him, yes, he’s still there. He manages to not look silly, fully dressed in a high school gym shower. There’s water pooling at his feet. He’s in all black, she’s naked, Death and The Maiden, is that what this all is?

“Why are you here?” She backs herself into the cold tile wall, “Why are you back?”

“Maybe I don’t like picturing you with anyone else.”

He has on his tense-cheeked smile when he says it, the ironic one, the too-cheerful one, and she’s beginning to think that that’s the one he used when he was actually being honest with her.  

“You knew what you had to do to keep me around.”

He strips for her, standing ten feet away. So she can watch. She feels less naked as she watched. Like he’s the one being caught not ready. Coat, flannel, t-shirt. Boots, socks, pants. Boxers. It’s a lot less dramatic than her layers upon layers, but he stands prouder than she would have when the whole ordeal was done. 

One hip is cocked, and it’s because he knows she’s watching. 

And she likes it. He smirks because he knows she likes it. 

This disturbs her beyond belief. She tears her eyes away. 

“What do you want?”

She doesn’t know why she waited until he was done to say it, but he’s already walking over to her. 

“To get you back.”

“You’re dead. There’s nothing to get back to.”

“I beg to differ,” and he dips down quickly, catching her in a kiss she couldn’t fight if she tried. 

“Liked what you saw?” he murmurs against her reacting mouth, and she groans in rage, clinging to his shoulders as he lifts her up. 

Slick and soapy and so wet she could faint, it’s no time before he’s inside her again, and it’s agony. It doesn’t feel right. He feels alive, when he shouldn’t, when he’s not. But he’s warm and breathing and shuddering and giving her every sign of life a sexual partner could possibly give. 

Her skin is flushed, magnified by the cold tile surface she’s backed up against. 

“Just like old times,” he murmurs against her neck, thrusting carelessly, as though his strokes are lazy and unimportant. He knows it works her up. She knows he’s doing it on purpose. 

“I’m too young to miss old times,” she growls, still clinging, clenching around him, wanting to die in that moment. 

“You’re the stony, iron-fisted matriarch of Westerberg. You’ve been needing this for a long time and you know it. 

With this, his pace is punishingly perfect, the rhythm coaxing against all the parts inside her, efficiently getting her where they need to go. 

She moans in spite of herself, because sex was never like _ this  _ before or after him. This was what she had talked herself out of it being with every other partner. Maybe because he was the only partner. Not just a guy searching for release. But someone working with her, splitting the spoils. Her partner in crime, and everything else. 

It snags her heart, this moment of weakness, and she wrenches her head back away from his current kiss. 

“You couldn’t love me,” she grabs fistfuls of his hair at the nape of his neck, forcing him to look at her, “you couldn’t love me if I hadn’t killed you, is that what this is? That I fucking earned it, and now you can’t leave?”

His eyes are first pupil-blown, then completely black.

Veronica remembers the day he watched the video of that building going down, and he never looked at her like he looked at that explosion. Until now. 

She feels him shudder. Feels him cum inside her. Feels so much warmer inside after, hot against the skin that’s touching his, writhes against it because it’s almost too hot. 

He blinks his eyes shut, pulling away. 

“I don’t know,” he admits softly, pressing his brow to hers. He slides a hand between them. 

“Don’t,” she stammers weakly. 

“I need to,” he whispers, taking a shaky breath. 

His fingers slap against her inner thigh, not hard, but enough to command it to part from the other. 

It’s a messier orgasm than she’s used to. An efficient girl, and not a very indulgent one, this is the first time he’s been able to pull noises like that from her. His eyes bore into hers, and she avoid it. Her eyes with slit open every few minutes, and he’s still watching intently. The sight alone nearly pushes her over the edge every time, but she snaps her eyes shut tight instead of giving him the satisfaction. 

“You used to say I was a good fuck,” he says softly, like he’s mentioning the most loving words he’s ever heard. 

“You were,” but her hips arch towards the crooking of his fingers, so her point is taken away. 

“I liked hearing that,” he whispers softly, kissing her sweetly on the lips. 

She can’t imagine the last time anyone’s praised him. She always thinks she breaks herself of sentiment, and he drags her back. 

“This feels good,” she whispers, more breath than noise, right against his neck. 

He kisses her so gratefully, so thankfully, free hand cradling her face. It’s not his movements but more his emotions that have her spiraling out of control under his fingers, breaking apart and screaming all under the shower’s spray. 

Her face is so broken when it’s over, he’s kissing every inch of it and cooing over how good she is for him, how he needs it.

Her face shies away from him.  

“Leave,” she hisses between clenched teeth, holding back tears. 

He holds her face in his hands, running his thumbs along her cheeks. 

“I can’t.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo wow I don't know where that came from.


	4. Chapter 4

There has to be a set of rules to it. How he just...makes himself known. 

He’s always there, because he’s always doing that. She once got passed a note that said “eskimo” mid-class and couldn’t trace who handed it to her or who would even…

No one but him. 

She crumpled the note. It unearthed itself from the bottom of her backpack on a daily basis. 

She could have sworn she threw it out every time she found it. 

 

At prom, she can’t even summon the name of her date. She knows she has a million classes with him. She recalled it that afternoon, but she was dancing with him now and she couldn’t, who had asked her, why was this…?

She lifted her head from his shoulder. His cutting smile is perfectly in place, and it’s not on a corpse. She can’t tell if he’s in a trench or a tux. The prom was a blue lit neon, like how she remembered the light in Heather Duke’s kitchen when they...did they...had they?

She remembered his face perfectly, so readily that when it was there, it was like he had never been gone.

“Did I say yes when you asked me?” she murmured faintly. 

He narrowed his eyes in that evaluating, surprised look he sometimes got when she proved herself to him. 

“My god Veronica, you don’t even remember?”

“I do, I just...”

Was what she was remembering even real. 

Was it a fog machine or actual smoke? Was she smelling smoke from him?

He was enveloping her. They weren’t even dancing, they were just in that hazy blue and he was holding her and she was letting him. 

“If you had let me off one more Heather you probably could have been prom queen.”

In her hazy, dreamy stupor, she barked out a laugh. 

 

She wakes up from an afternoon nap gone astray, an hours-long detour. She slept through dinner, she can already tell by the stillness of the house. Her mother wouldn’t bother to wake her anymore. Once when she pretended to sleep to avoid a phone call from her grandparents she heard her parents in the hallway, clucking over her.

“It’s probably for the best she gets some sleep.” 

Gritting her teeth, she looks at her watch. Heather’s Swatch. 

It was two in the morning. She’s been asleep for so long it doesn’t seem like she’ll go back anytime soon. She may be done for the night, when the world was still, and it was just here. 

Her phone rings. 

She answers. 

It’s him.

It would be so like him to climb through her window, so she’s mildly shocked he called. He never called. He  _ arrived.  _

“Greeting and Salutations.”

“You never called before,” she whispers faintly, her voice adjusting the level of silence in the house. 

“People can change after high school, Veronica.”

She doesn’t laugh at this joke, even though the last one got her. 

“I don’t know if they do. Don’t we just become our parents?”

Sitting cross legged on her bad, talking to a boy on the phone. This should be normal. 

“Please don’t become your parents. It’ll make me regret not killing you.”

“You’re really fucked up, you know that?”

“I never pretended to be anything else, if I remember correctly.”

She leans her head back on her pillow. She tries to imagine him in his room, the room she never saw, calling her, doing his homework. There was no permanence to him. No spacial reasoning with a bed and a desk and a favorite TV show. 

“I think about it, sometimes. If I had been able to save you.”

She hears him grunt, shrugging off the sentiment.

“That wasn’t your job. Not your responsibility.”

“Someone should have.”

“Not you.”

She closes her eyes, and she could picture him there, in her room, edging through her life. She isn’t sure if had any of his own.

“Do you not believe you were worth saving?”

“Do you?”

She lets out a shaky breath. JD was mystery, he was sex, he was nothing but destruction under that mire. 

If loving him was what he had needed, she gave it. And failed.

“There’s someone in there, who I never met, who must have been.”

“There was something in you I didn’t know until you showed it to me.”

_ Power I didn’t think you had.  _

“So am I allowed to see that?”

He chuckles. “Can you be haunted by something you never knew? I thought this was the familiar. The thing that goes bump in the night.”

“No, it’s the mystery that makes it scary.”

“Scary, sexy, whatever you want to see. Keeps them guessing.”

“Keeps them at a distance,” she amends his claim, remembering her piqued interest the more she realized she didn’t know. 

“People see what they want to see.”

Eskimo. 

She snorts, raising her eyebrows. She nods, forgetting he couldn’t see her. He probably could. 

“Do you miss me?”

She’s never actually heard him vulnerable, other than “Nobody loves me” but she had a suspicion that was for show.

“Yes,” she finds herself answering honestly. 

“Was it the sex?”

She can tell he’s baiting a way out for her. 

“No,” she still chooses honesty, which is more than he deserves.

He clears his throat, chuckling at a joke he chooses not to share with her. 

“Was this ever going to end any other way?”

She used to be fine with things staying the same. She wasn’t that person anymore. 

But she could still  _ miss _ things being the same, couldn’t she?

Was he ever the kind of person to relinquish his white-knuckled grip on her?

“I thought it ended when we broke up. When I shot you. When you blew yourself up. Is it over, JD? Are you telling me it’s finally over?”

He laughs, but he doesn’t seem to find it any funnier than she did.

“You know it’s not that simple.”

She used to be so stunned, by the evidence of him. Snatching photos out of people’s hands that featured him and her in the background. Not that there were a lot.

“Do I have to carry you with me the rest of my life now?”

But now, it was familiar, familiar enough to get old. She's tired again, and he all but promised he’d be back. 

“You don’t  _ have _ to, but that’s what makes it romantic.”

There is crackling in his voice. A break. Something not filtered through smoke and fed to her by a rough hand. 

“Goodnight, JD.”

She hangs up before she could hear his answer. Her head hits the pillow, and she falls asleep exactly as she had when she got home from school, over the covers and fully dressed. 

  
  


At prom, she held him. She had said yes. He rested his head on her shoulder and she stroked her fingers through his hair. She heard him whimper. 

“It’s alright,” she said.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I still can't believe after six years this is the first time I write a Heathers Fanfiction.


End file.
